If You Wake Up
by WidowScorpion
Summary: It had been a week since she had opened her eyes.
1. Fletch

**Hello! First of all, I haven't written for Holby City in AGES and have never written Fletch, and, second of all, I haven't written in years, so be kind.  
**

 **Day Seven**

Soft sounds bled from the solemn space of intensive care. Inside, the deep, slow beeps of monitors met the spluttered wheeze of respirators in an ugly, but living, mess. Nurses floated from bed to bed, correcting charts with a sharp click of drying pens and scratchy cursive. Centred under the heat of white lights, were two pale doctors.

Jac Naylor and Oliver Valentine were lucky to be alive.

The door swung open, tottering on its hinges. At first disgruntled by interruptions outside visiting hours, it had become quite accustomed to the motion over the past week.

Throwing around a courteous nod, Adrian Fletcher settled into the seat next to his friend's still form, filling the warm depression in the cheap material. He stared at her in the few quiet moments they had alone, something she'd have killed him for, Fletch mused, if this had been any other day. Wan and twitching, her face was blank, devoid of all the character he had come to admire. Tresses of glorious red hair curled by her shoulders like twisted rivulets of spilled blood.

It had been a week since the shooting. The hospital was slowly recovering, clutching at the fading flicker of normality. AAU was swamped not with patients but with richly coloured flowers. Keller had unremembered their disgraced surgeon, specs of his blood still upon their floor. And Darwin – Darwin was now run by strangers, a blackhole of painful absence.

It had been a week since she had opened her eyes.

Somewhere in Fletch's reflections, his calloused hand had woven around hers. It was cold and svelte and soft. He had seen what she could do with her willowy fingers. They seemed so different now, slack and powerless, sinking back into the mattress when he forced himself to let go.

His time was up. Darwin needed him, and he was going to make damn sure her ward survived until she needed it.

 **Day Eight**

The door spat its greeting as he passed through. Stuck with the same routine, Fletch bowed his head at a passing nurse before slumping into his chair by Jac's bedside. Today, he had brought along lunch, something painfully fatty and greasy from Pulses.

He watched as her brow furrowed in sleep. "I know. I know. Heart attack on a plate, right? Doesn't half taste good, though." Somehow this was different to talking to himself.

Sauce dribbled from his lips, colouring her sheets a sticky orange. Clearing his throat, Fletch wiped the offending mark with his sleeve.

"Sorry," he muttered, lest she realised what he had done.

He chewed on his baguette, eyes following the rise and fall of her chest, however artificial.

"You know, it's been so long since you've scared the living daylights out of me that I'm practically hypotensive. Can't seem to find a way to get the blood pumping to the old brain like that did." He joked lightly over the food stifling his volume. "Doesn't take much to get on your bad side too. I forget to knock and you're off on one about privacy and respect quicker than you can stop a bleed."

His strained smile grew sober, straighter, as he eyed the twists of tubes and the length of lines that overtook her slackened limbs and empty face. Suddenly, he was struck by an idea.

"Tell you what? Let's make a deal," he ventured hopefully. "If you wake up right now, I promise never to do that again. The only thing you'll ever be hearing from me is a light tapping."

He let her absorb this information, some part of him half-assured she'd spring up if only to laugh. Time seemed to crawl on feet of lead.

And Jac did not move.

Maybe she enjoyed sparring with him more than she could say.

 **Day Nine**

Fletch kicked the door softly with his shoe, dusting off the light splatter of snow. Cuddling a steaming coffee, he soon relaxed into his seat, and took to observing his friend once again.

"Bit chilly, isn't it?" He commented, heart deflated when her cheeks were not stained with rose. "Been freezing my butt off helping Donna with the decorations. Thought we could all use a bit of Christmas spirit. Keep morale up, you know."

The machine exhaled. "Don't worry. I banned all red and green from your office. Made sure to bin the electric Santa and everything. I know you don't go in for all that stuff."

He had left her workplace sanctuary relatively undisturbed, beset with weak hope. One day, the locum had discovered a small fleet of paper aeroplanes in a draw, inscribed with her neat script and folded crisply into place. Fletch ensured they remained untouched, never daring to read her internal dialogue.

"Got myself a cup of joe too. Have to say – it really does warm the cockles. Actually helped me come up with a second proposal for you." He leaned in towards her, almost conspiratorially. "If you wake up right now, I'll bring you your morning coffee for a month."

No response.

"You drive a hard bargain." He contemplated her for a moment. "Okay then, for a year. Eight a.m on the dot. A Fletch delivery service. Limited time offer. What do you say?"

The monitor blinked at him.

Fletch sighed. "Well don't get up."

 **Day Ten**

Backing through the door, he balanced the mustard-yellow plastic box in his arms. Delicately, Fletch placed the monstrosity down upon her bed, careful to miss her lifeless legs. He fished inside, pulled out a tired photograph, and smiled at the speckled child with the endless grin and hopeful eyes.

"I got the spare key off Sacha and picked up a couple of things from your place. Apparently having familiar stuff around helps. You or me, I don't know."

His hands stilled when they met the shabby outline of a book, pages browned with age and dusty with disuse. "He said it's your favourite. Has been since you were a kid." He turned it over, having abandoned the other few possessions that couldn't hold his interest. "The Outsiders," he murmured, wiping a nail down the broken spine.

"Was never much into reading meself, but I've seen the film, the one with Tom Cruise?" Fletch allowed time for her silent reply. "Yeah, I doubt it's the same."

He collapsed into the chair, and prised open the volume, skimming through the sallow pages. "Anyhow, thought I'd read you a little before my break ends. Try to get those cogs whirring again."

Fletch ran a stocky thumb over the inked name on the inside cover, skulking over the fanciful curls of her penmanship. His eyebrows shot up. "You've got some hell of a library fine."

Throwing Jac a look, he wiggled a finger at her. "You must have nicked it, hey? Bet that's a story worth telling."

The monitors chuckled throatily at him, as if revelling in some private victory. He exhaled sadly. "You know what I think? I think you have too much bottled up inside. I think it's killing you. So, if you ever want to chew off a friendly ear, or to drown your sorrows, then I'm here for you. A problem shared and all that."

Again, and like always, Jac gave no indication that she had heard him.

Guilt and pain and sorrow scratched at his eyes, tears snagging in the corners. They burned as he stared at her. He wanted to yell himself hoarse. Tell her to stop being so goddam stubborn. Instead, he fell back on his oaths.

"If you wake up right now, I promise that I'll make more of an effort in getting to know you. Kid's books. Chicken salad. Blondie. Everything."

If he didn't know better, he could have sworn he saw her smile.


	2. Sacha

**Hello! I was originally not going to write a chapter two, but I got so many lovely reviews that I kinda felt inspired. There might also be a chapter three in me, but it might take a while :') Again, please be kind!  
**

* * *

 **Day Seven**

Choking on oxygen, the ventilators uttered orchestral groans, shuddering under the harsh anbaric light. Nurses snapped and strangled the fluid bags, wringing their necks and adjusting their valves, liquid dribbling down the spindly, translucent tubes in shaky compliance. The clock on the wall ticked away, tutting meekly at the two unconscious surgeons and their inability to rise.

Gently, almost tentatively, the door found itself pushed open.

Sacha Levy entered the silent space of intensive care, side-stepping the first bed he met in guilty favour of the other. Lifelines snaked around the waxen figure swallowed by the chaste, chalk covers, and his eyes chased the vines of machine support tucked into her skin. Caged by metal and plastic and oblivion, Jac Naylor had never seemed so small.

She was his best friend. This brilliant woman was his best friend. He did not muse on that impossibility often enough. His knuckles grew white as they gripped the cold, metallic bedframe, all the guilt and all the pain channelled into the strength of his grasp around the caging cylinder and the stretch of his fattened and curling fingertips.

She was supposed to be the strong one. His constant in the changing tide of hospital comings and goings. Now look at her. Poked and prodded, dull and defunct, twitching face and animated breath the only signs of the life he knew she still had within her.

Sacha tried to swallow away his guilt until the beep of the pager clipped to his pocket tore him away from the solace of quiet contemplation. It was in that moment, as the sadness tugged at his heart, that he decided.

He'd conjure up enough strength for the both of them.

 **Day Eight**

The door clattered against the wall, its handle pressed into the slight dent in the brick. Sacha nudged through, hands too busy with an amethyst tin to bother saving the plaster. Carefully, he balanced the snack upon her sheathed shins, scanning her face for any notion of protest. When her eyebrow quivered in some unspoken mirth, he could almost convince himself of her consciousness.

"Don't give me that look. Would you buy it if I said the diet starts tomorrow?" He relaxed into the seat next to her, consuming a crater in the crinkled material. Frowning, he scratched at the orange stain rubbed carelessly into her once-white sheets.

He could only pretend she had answered him. "I thought not." Sacha shrugged apologetically. "Anyway, you know how impossible it is to resist the sickly-sweet allure of the Darwin biscuit tin. Elliot always knew how to keep it well stocked. It seems you follow in his footsteps more than you'd have us believe."

Before today, it had been over a week since he had set foot on her ward, unable to even entertain the thought. Indeed, it was the emptiness that struck him most of all when he found himself pilfering her office in a desperate grab at normality. Some small part of him had believed she would saunter through the old doors, raise a neat eyebrow, and scold the mainstay of his diet. And that would be enough to set the universe right again.

It had been difficult not to be disappointed when only his stomach grumbled at him.

Prising open the lid, he sifted through the splendid mess of mottled crumbs and sticky jam until he felt the soft undulation of raisons within oblong dough. Not giving it much thought, he rescued the gorgeous treat from the crumpled remains of his brothers.

"Garibaldis are my favourite, but I'm sure you know that, judging by the volume that have mysteriously disappeared over the years." He shook his head and let out a grievous sigh. "My biggest mistake was making Dominic biscuit monitor. He has totalitarian ideas and a penchant for pink wafers. He could be three floors away and I can still feel his eyes on the back of my head when I dip into his secret stash."

He knew how to use meaningless conversation to fill a sad silence.

"You never said anything about my habit, though," Sacha recollected, twisting the biscuit in restless hands, "It sounds stupid, but I'd give these up in a heartbeat if you were to wake up right now."

Words falling on deaf ears, the machine lifted her chest in a sluggish inhale. Sacha's heart sank, and he patted her knee, soothing and sombre. "Guess you like me cuddly."

 **Day Nine**

Crimpled box swamped in his arms, Sacha dimpled the wall upon entry into the ITU once again. Shivering, almost skidding as icy shoes met cleaned floor, he neared the bed and released his gift, using her legs as a makeshift table.

"Maybe you're past weather reports, but it's snowing. And that means I nearly broke my neck carrying this over for you, so you better be on top form, Naylor." Sacha unfolded the plastic counter, swinging it around her small figure, and unpacked the grubby chess set, blowing a cloud of dust from the chequered panel.

Setting it down softly, he began to slowly assemble the familiar formation piece by piece, in case Jac sprang up in time to participate.

She did not.

Still, he played defence, and she played attack. They continued at it for a while, the soft tap of intercepting pawns the only sound to permeate the sunken air.

Soon, Sacha paused to stare at her pensively. "You used to ridicule me over my board game addiction. 'It's in the name,' you'd say, and then get riled up over some silly title you'd never heard of." He almost chuckled at the memory. "It used to make me laugh… until I realised that it was all a front, and you really didn't know. No one had ever taught you." The wispy smile on his lips melted away as he rolled a captured knight between stodgy fingers.

"Do you remember our first chess game?" His navy eyes twinkled. "You took to it like you take to everything - with ease. Sure, I won, but my years of experience could barely outplay your natural flair." He paused, pondering her. "How do you do that, eh? Be so ridiculously talented?"

The ventilator huffed at him.

Sacha sighed, growing serious. "You're our Wonder Woman, Jac Naylor, and you'll get better. Don't let yourself forget that."

True to form, it took only a couple of moments before his white king bounced against the ageing wood in defeat. "Checkmate," he muttered half-blithely. Her black-hearted queen stood proud and stoic, a far cry from the crumbling woman that lay on the bed.

Cradling the piece in his bear-like palm, sweet optimism tumbled from his face, replaced by rich, glorious guilt. "We stopped, didn't we? Playing games. Why did we do that?"

He reached out and gripped her limp hand with his spare, as if trying to prise her from the dark and turbulent depths of oblivion. All he wanted was to hear her sharp wit once more, or feel her laser-like glare trepan into his head. He would give anything to see her smile, so rare and beautiful and kind that it was.

"You know, if you wake up today, I'll teach you some more – Scrabble, Cluedo, Monopoly, just so long as you promise not to buy out all of Boardwalk."

Tears scored wet lines down his rosy cheeks.

"That's a special Levy guarantee."

 **Day Ten**

Sometimes Sacha found himself sitting in silence, contemplating wistfully and watching her fake breathing. Other times he could not bear being left alone with his thoughts for fear of the pain they would bring. Today, with the way her face seemed paler against the rose of her lips and the whisperings of _sepsis_ from desolate nurses, he had to fill the quiet, if only for temporary solace.

"Nurse Fletcher should be along later, bearing gifts I imagine. God knows what you've done to that man, but he's doing everything in his power to help you." He blinked, eyes wet and glistening. "I'm just sorry I couldn't do the same. I should have seen how much you needed my support, Jac."

Sacha cursed himself for letting her down. He would beg for her forgiveness if it came to it. "I'm your best friend, goddamn it. I should have been there. I should have been your shoulder to cry on." Again, he sought for the feeling of her hand in his, grounding him against the unforgiving tempest of grief and solitude. "I will be forever grateful that Fletch saw you through whatever it was you couldn't show me."

He moved then, plonked himself right by her side as if making up for lost time. "Now, I promise you, when you wake up, I will always make the effort to check in."

There was no room for _ifs_ in Sacha Levy's world.

"I want to know what's going on with you, and, even if you can't tell me, I just need to know that you're alright. That you're coping. And, if you're not, then that's okay, Jac. That's okay. We'll talk about it over a glass of red and a therapy cheesecake, the diet be damned."

He couldn't help it - he just had to make her laugh again.

She did not.

* * *

 **How was it? I actually found Sacha more difficult to write than Fletch. The last time I wrote Sacha must have been five/six years ago, and he has changed since then. I'm actually more used to writing Jac's dialogue than any of the other character's so this is quite the change. I love hearing what people think, so if you enjoyed then please let me know! Thank you very much for getting this far! ;)**


	3. Jasmine

**First off, I want to apologize for how many months this took, but I finished my exams last week and I wanted to get it out there asap! Since it has been so long, you might have to re-read the previous chapters haha :')  
**

 **Day Seven**

It was blank, this place. Whites and greys and not much else. The space was expansive, with a cinereal mist undulating and arching as if alive and thinking. There was almost no noise, spare the soft whoosh of passing vapour, and the silence seemed to weigh heavily on the dense air.

It had been a week since Jac Naylor had awoken here.

She could not determine where, or when, or even what, _here_ was, but a strange acceptance had come upon her on the fourth or fifth day of nothingness, as if she knew it was temporary. The boredom, of course, had been harder to bear, for she was alone in this purgatory that stretched further than she could see. Sometimes, there were chaste whispers riding the spray of fog, a tumbling of timbres and tones that she thought she recognised, but they whipped away before her memories caught up with them.

Sitting cross-legged upon the ivory floor, Jac closed her eyes, her forehead creasing in concentration, her ears pricked, attuned to any atmospheric shift.

There.

The dim, dulcet tick of a clock swam around her. It had become a comfort these past few days, grounding her to the real world. She felt a slight tingle in her hand, a feathery touch traversing her palm, and ached for the concreteness of real sensation.

Her reverie did not last long, for the rolling fog skulked over her, and the sky mutated into some overcast beast, slit by contours of light. A rolling groan from above, and the splatter of rain upon her face, were enough to have Jac prise her eyes open in surprise and glance upwards.

This was different. That unnerved her.

She swivelled in reaction to a sound at her left, a quiet shuffling of indeterminate distance. In her periphery stood a figure, indistinct against the mist and the hail. Jac squinted, desperate to identify the peculiar thing. It was when she blinked that she felt its breath tickle her neck, and a cold hand on her shoulder.

"Jasmine," she murmured softly. The apparition blinked out of existence.

 **Day Eight**

It took some time before the shift in the atmosphere presented itself once again. Jac closed her eyes against the cold, bracing herself for both the creeping chill and what, or rather who, it signified. She forced them open to turn slowly on her heel. The pellucid phantom sat a few metres away, cross-legged and flickering like some abandoned ember. In Jasmine's hands was a small paper plane, crisp and rustling underneath her fiddling fingertips; she flew the aircraft, adding sound-effects to her little game.

Jac had dreamt of this moment. She had spent months imaging a re-do, a last conversation that wasn't shrouded in spite, nor panicked utterings and bleeding wounds. And, yet, when she stood, staring down at her sister, her mind saw only blankness, as if it had permeated from the outside.

She fell back to her old routines. "Shouldn't you be six feet under right about now?"

Jasmine did not spare her a glance. "And it's nice to see you too, sis."

"Can't say the feeling's mutual," Jac drawled, but even to her ears the words felt fake. Jasmine lifted her head up, abandoning the plane in the hollow between her legs.

"Yeah? Then what am I doing here?" Her sibling challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Jac narrowed her eyes. "I don't know, but I'd say a flying visit is too much to hope for."

"You really don't know? I'm your sister-"

Jac chuckled darkly. "Only now you're more Jacob Marley than little Fan."

Jasmine raised her hands in defence. "Okay, Scrooge," she teased gently, earning herself a glare, "I'm just saying your subconscious is a little more transparent than you'd think."

The glower reshuffled into incredulity. **"** Bloody delusional, more like," Jac muttered with a shake of her head, "This is- "

"Mental? Cuckoo? Stark raving mad?" Jasmine propounded, a little too eagerly.

"- an absolute nightmare," Jac finished, pressing a hand to her forehead.

Her sister paused. "Little bit harsh."

Before an appropriate response was made, there was a soft thud. Jac, unaccustomed to such blatant noise, flinched, but Jasmine seemed unfazed.

"That'll be Fletch with the morning report. Consistent, your fella."

Jac reeled, eyes widening at the news, and the naturality at which it was said. Filled with some blossoming of feeling, a small smile crossed her lips at the image of Adrian by her bedside. This was why it took her far too long to register the second sentence. A flurry of rose bleached her cheeks at the implication, and she tugged at her fallen composure.

"Oh, please, I'd rather be strangled by my own intestinal organs than sleep with the likes of Adrian Fletcher." Again, her lies were tragically incredible.

Jasmine winked at her. "If that's your kink." Her sister scowled, which only made her smirk grow. "Sorry, I just think it's nice that you let him in. It's not like you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Jasmine faltered under Jac's demanding stare, and she sighed quietly. "I never got the chance to get close to you. And I tried so hard, but it was always one wall after the other." She looked down, once again tempted to cradle the paper plane in her palms. "I know you think that makes me naïve and stupid, but- "

"It was never worth the effort," Jac interrupted, her voice sharp and edging on cruel. "I was never worth it," she clarified, emphasising the pronoun. "Whatever lies _that_ woman spewed about me, and whatever childish fantasy you had somehow contrived from them, they set you up to fail. I pitied you for it, yes, but I was never going to let you in." Jac kept pushing and pushing, and yet she couldn't stop herself. "You were naïve to believe that I would. You were stupid to keep trying."

Jasmine listened intently to every word, all the hurt and the pain amalgamating to form the tears that wet her eyes and splintered Jac's icy heart. She shook her head. "You still don't get it," Jasmine murmured, collecting the courage to look up at her. "I came to Holby to find you. My sister."

She grasped the plane tenderly before standing tall, on level with Jac. "And you didn't want me to go, not in the end." Their eyes met, and, in that moment, in the creases that crept onto Jac's skin and the stunned, overcast silence, Jasmine knew she was right.

And she dissipated.

 **Day Nine**

The cold before the storm was now becoming a familiar distraction from the vast nothingness. Still, Jac played her part and groaned when the chill hit the back of her neck. "Oh god, it's like trying to shake genital herpes."

Jasmine appeared to her left. "Charming." Tucked under her arms was a frayed, tan box. She boosted it slightly, stressing the thing's presence. "Figured you might be bored."

"So, you thought, 'hey presto, a cardboard box', Jac drawled wryly. "How scintillating for my psyche."

Jasmine rolled her eyes. "It's a chess set," she stated dryly, plonking it on the floor before doing the same. She unhurriedly assembled the pieces, twisting her white queen into the two-dimensional square. Once the last pawn stood in formation, she gazed up at her sister with an expectant eyebrow. "Well, are you game or not?"

They played for a while, albeit one party a little begrudgingly. It was when Jasmine had set her last plan into motion that she spoke. "Mum taught me how to play," she risked, her voice soft. Jac's hand stilled, fingers strangling a black knight. "It was nice – me and her, bonding over some silly board game." Jac's steely gaze enveloped the girl whole.

"What she did to you was cruel, but she got better, you know? Really tried to be there for me, in her own way." Jasmine exhaled. "I miss her."

An image of herself, young and frail and cowering in a corner, crept upon Jac with legs of steel, anchored to her psyche. A wretched urchin, dull hair tatted, and skin smeared with dirt, watching her mother take hit after hit. Jac wished she could melt into the wall she so desperately pushed against as the needle came skidding towards her, some cruel punishment for her whimpering mouth.

"I guess what I'm really trying to say is that every kid needs her mother." Jasmine's sentiment plucked Jac from her memories.

"What, and I'm no different?" She said defensively, frowning. "Newsflash for you, Casper, but mother dearest is rotting in the ninth circle of hell."

"That's not what I meant. _Emma_ is no different. She needs you."

The name twisted through her internal organs with the merciless apathy of a whirlwind. "And there's nothing I can do for her while I'm stuck here in limbo." Jac waved her arms around, before they settled to move her knight. "Talk about divine comedy."

Jasmine was quiet for a few moments, until she slid her bishop forward. "Check," she murmured almost apologetically. She caught her sister's eye, holding her in a soul-searching trance. "If you ask me, Jac, 'stuck' is a pretty strong word."

With that, she was gone.

 **Day Ten**

Jac's eyes were closed as she focused on the soft tumbleweed of tones passing her, seemingly swishing through her ears. Some were gangly, barely a low whisper, smothered beneath the fog. Others had left their mark – sweet murmurings of heartfelt promises that tore holes in her equanimity. She could discriminate between the low voices of two males, one rough and rugged, the other posher, but both with the sincerity that came with caring.

Jasmine wiped a nail down the cheek of the older face, over the blotches of red, traversing the trickle of a lone tear.

"Here," she said gently. "Let me show you." She clasped her sister's hand, and Jac marvelled at how _solid_ it felt. This thought did not last long, however, for she had only to blink and they were in the hospital room, the clock chuckling down at them with unveiled mirth.

It was strange looking down upon her own body, to follow the path of greying wires burrowing into her arm. What was even stranger, Jac mused, was the smattering of personal possessions around her sleeping form. Flowers, photographs, books, and even the ruby ball cactus she thought would have been abandoned at home.

She didn't want to look at _him_. She didn't want to accept what he had done for her, and what that truly meant. Indeed, it took a nudge from her sister for her resolve to crumble, and she laid eyes on him for the first time in god knows how long.

The dark bags that pressed into his skin, and the unkept shadow of stubble, compelled her nearer. Fletch was saying something.

 _"If you wake up now, I promise that I'll make more of an effort in getting to know you. Kid's books. Chicken salad. Blondie. Everything."_

Unbidden, a small smile upturned the corners of her lips. With this, Jasmine let go of her hand. Jac sensed the finality of the action and whipped around to face her.

"He needs you more than I do," she said in explanation, her figure flickering, and opaqueness bleeding away.

"No." Jac shook her head, wisps of golden hair whipping about as if in mutual disagreement.

"It's time to wake up, sis."

Jac glanced between the two of them, a perfect picture of a torn being. Her sister smiled encouragingly, and, in that second, Jasmine was her elder, wise and reassuring and selfless. Jac knew what she had to do.

"I…" She began, swallowing away her fear, desperate to right her wrong. Almost translucent, it was the twinkle in Jasmine's eyes that remained. "I... love you," Jac stuttered out.

But Jasmine had vanished. Fraught optimism toppled from Jac's face, replaced with forlorn anguish, and a desperate hope that Jasmine had heard her. Her heart hurt, and it panged in grief, pained by the possibility that she had missed her chance again.

Jasmine blinked back into the nothingness. "I know," she whispered sadly. It was then that the paper plane soared above her, Jac's learned cursive glinting lovingly as Jasmine followed her peculiar guide into the white light.

 **Day Eleven**

Fletch had began to lose hope, hand wrapped around hers, and back bent from leaning over her bedside. His face was buried into the sheets by her hip, exhausted and seeking comfort in their closeness. His promises hadn't worked. Fletch was starting to believe that they never would.

It was as this thought passed him by that he felt the weak pressure squeezing his fingers. Lifting his head in disbelief, he waited with baited breath, his words escaping him. He, in his buckets of time since that day, had, however, worked out a whole speech.

Still, he was not prepared when Jac Naylor opened her eyes.


End file.
